


Whumptober-November

by WillowWorksWithWords71



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:01:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 11,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27344743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowWorksWithWords71/pseuds/WillowWorksWithWords71
Summary: Responses to the whumptober 2020 prompts, but in November! I'm going to be using these as exercises to warm up for my daily NaNoWriMo sessions. I will add tags as I go, but expect general hurt/comfort for both Crowley and Aziraphale! Updates daily.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 48
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. Let’s hang out sometime, in the hands of the enemy, or perhaps a more pleasant place

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone!! I'm Willow, and though I'm a seasoned pro at reading fanfic, this is my debut as a fanfic writer. I'm posting these as unconnected (probably) one-shots, and I'll update daily. I would love kudos and comments. Constructive criticism is much appreciated, too!! These will all be only edited my me, no beta, so please be kind:)  
> I'd love to know what you think!!!
> 
> -Willow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of Heaven's favorite punishments for Aziraphale
> 
> Edited from original posting on November 3rd, too early o'clock in the a.m.

Aziraphale was unfortunately familiar with the weight of spell-binding shackles. He was all-too familiar with waking up with a hazy mind and a peculiar sense of loss. It had lost effect, the peculiarity, much too fast.  


He knew that he had no other option but to wait for it to end. When Gabriel would come in, he would apologize profusely for whatever Gabriel wanted him to. He had memorized a couple variants of responses he knew Gabriel would accept, and in the meantime, he would wait in the cold whiteness of Heaven’s white jail -- the angel’s Hell in all truth, though he couldn’t even manage to call it that in his mind—and let himself feel every nerve as it numbed and his True Form fade from his corporeal mind as the shackles grew in weight and power.  


Time always passed oddly for an ethereal being, but when Aziraphale was kept in Heaven he knew no way of tracking it, so it skittered and stuttered and slipped by as fast and as slow as he could imagine.  


Crowley was right about the imagining bit, it was quite the useful little tool, when one could remember how to use it.  


The trip back to Earth was always hellish, of that Aziraphale had no trouble admitting. Once Gabriel had finished berating and belittling him, violet eyes cold and heartless, he would simply snap his fingers and zap Aziraphale straight into the bookshop. Going from no sensation but the weight of ethereal metal to the hustle and bustle of SoHo slamming back at maximum volume…  


Well, let’s just say he always needed a while to recover.  


The shaking wouldn’t fade for weeks. For the first few days, he wouldn’t be able to breathe properly. Though not a necessary facet of his corporation, it had become a familiar one, and those first days back were spent yearning for a familiarity. And it always surprised him that familiarity had not yet been provided by Crowley, haunting Aziraphale’s bookshop in his absence.  


This was never something he dwelt on, however, for he always dedicated himself to remembering how to move his legs and expand his lungs and release his iron grip on his corporation’s ears. 

Crowley would do as he pleased when Aziraphale was gone. No matter to him. He couldn’t even be certain if he had been long enough to miss.  


They had gone near-centuries without seeing each other before, what was a few trips to Heaven?  


It never got better, but he was used to it. He knew what to expect, and that made him feel better, which was almost as good as the real thing. As long as nothing changed, as long as what he had come to expect from that terrible occurrence came true each time, he was fine.  


But of course, one day it changed.  


Not too long before the end-times, and too soon since his last trip Upstairs, Aziraphale had planned on spending the night in quietly with a first edition he had neglected (see: left gently on his nightstand for weeks on end) and a cup of cocoa. He had not been altogether peeved when the bookshop’s bells had rung before he had a chance to crack the spine.  


His hands had stopped shaking just that morning, and he had been rather proud to be able to answer the door steadily  


“Crowley, my dear, do come in.”  


The evening had rolled by as it so often did those days. The wine flowed with the conversation and they both avoided the subjects of Warlock and the Apocalypse and Satan like the plague. That expression they knew to be rather accurate for their current situation. Their precautions had been almost as severe.  


Neither mentioned Warlock especially. When they met over wine it was strictly for the other part of the Arrangement. This was of course the part that both got quite a bit more enjoyment out of. It was also the reason for the air in the bookshop to crackle and fizzle its ozone right before Gabriel, Sandolphon, and Michael appeared directly behind the couch that one Anthony J. Crowley had mere milliseconds before been seated on.  


Aziraphale knew it as soon as he saw that Gabriel had come flanked with Sandolphon and Michael. They may not have known about his fraternizing with Crowley, but he knew they didn’t need to know to exact Divine retribution on him.  


He had never been held captive in his own bookshop before.  


He hated it.  


Michael and Sandolphon had followed Gabriel’s orders like the spineless cowards they were. Aziraphale was rather still recovering from the blow Gabriel had just struck him with across his face and so hadn’t at first registered the familiar weight of the shackles being secured on his wrists.  


“Well, Aziraphale, you know the rules,” Gabriel sneered, his smile doing nothing to cover up his contempt for him. “No getting out of those until you’ve properly asked for forgiveness.”  


Aziraphale nodded mutely at Gabriel’s finger wagging in front of his face.  


Sometimes the talking was too much when they kept him like this. It hadn’t been that way at first, and Aziraphale suspected that it was his corporation’s mind trying to defend him the best it could. No speaking means nothing stupid could be said that would in turn prolong his suffering.  


He felt Crowley’s hands on his face before he registered his friend’s urgent, worried tone.  
“Angel. Angel, Aziraphale c’mon. Come on, Aziraphale, look at me,” Crowley said.  


Crowley’s fingers were often like ice, being a snake and all, and Aziraphale focused on those calloused, cold fingers on his cheeks to bring him back. As he opened his eyes to gaze at what he found out was Crowley’s neck he realized the shaking had begun again.  


Slowly, painstakingly, he moved his eyes up to meet the yellow of Crowley’s. He must have set his sunglasses aside, Aziraphale noted. The worry from his voice was in his eyes, too, and oh look his mouth was moving but no sound was reaching Aziraphale’s ears.  


Vaguely he registered Crowley feeling the shackles that pinned his arms behind his back and his power tightly against his True Form. As Crowley’s eyes returned to Aziraphale’s there seemed to pass an understanding.  


Gently, much more than Aziraphale knew he deserved, Crowley shifted, on hand sliding down to rest against Aziraphale’s chest and then to pull Aziraphale down against him as he settled against the couch. Now on his side, nestled on Crowley’s lap and his face comfortable against his stomach, Aziraphale stuttered out a breath they both knew was nearer to a sob.  


“It’s ok, angel,” Crowley soothed, one hand against Aziraphale’s back and the other working gently, too gently, through Aziraphale’s soft blond curls. “I’m here, Aziraphale, I’m right here.”  


And though he could still hardly breathe normal, and the sensation of the cuffs taking over his senses and numbing him slow and sure, Aziraphale remained nestled in the lap of his only friend for the rest of that night and the next and the next until the archangels returned on the fifth.  


By then Crowley had vanished to safety and Aziraphale had been propped up against the couch to sit for himself.  


“So, what do you have to say for yourself?” Gabriel questioned, put-upon by this simple task.  


Aziraphale gave one of his recited responses, and if he appeared to be in rather more amiable spirits, though still dampened and shaking, still numb and rattled, Gabriel didn’t take note.  


Once the stink of ozone broke again Crowley was back, pulling Aziraphale gently into his arms without asking for an explanation. He simply let Aziraphale shake against him, and in his breaking 

Aziraphale felt some pieces snap back into place.  


Safe for now, and he would take it.


	2. The cold is a no-go but an Angel heater? Yes please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternative Prompt #8: adverse reaction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More fluffy than hurt, but I enjoyed writing it this way. I'll probs do a prompt in the future that'll be more whump-focused and hypothermia-related.
> 
> Also, fifty degrees Fahrenheit is 10 Celsius.
> 
> Enjoy!

Crowley and Aziraphale had always been aware of the ways in which Crowley’s reptilian nature affected him day by day. He was rarely ever hungry, and when he was he refused to eat more than nibbles in front of Aziraphale because he had to swallow his food whole. He hated horses on principle, and they hated him as well, only knowing that, though in nature a human man, they had the same urge to bolt or stomp at him as they did with snakes, and they never ignored that instinct.

But the thermoregulating was a tricky one. This could be more easily covered up, seeing as, until the not-apocalypse had passed, Crowley and Aziraphale had had limited prolonged periods of time where they had had to keep an eye out for their respective head offices. This had led to both of them being at least halfway occupied with that worry while in each other’s company. 

So when Crowley began to shiver on their walk through the park Aziraphale didn’t even notice it. Crowley did, but he was so unused to being with Aziraphale almost constantly that his mind hadn’t yet registered that this was a problem that Aziraphale would have to be a part of. 

As another shiver took hold of him in the mild October air, Crowley knew that it was already too late. The shivers would soon progress to chattering teeth and purple-tinged fingernails and blue lips and if he didn’t get inside right that bloody second he would freeze. And really that was the last thing either of them needed, Crowley getting discorporated. 

(Though Crowley thought this lightly, his heart quickened at simply the thought of discorporation. Not for his own sake, but for Aziraphale. Neither of them did well when left truly alone.) 

He had become wrapped up in his spiral, cocooning himself too tightly to hear Aziraphale’s worried calling of his name. But he wasn’t too far gone that Aziraphale’s plump hands on his own skinny ones went unregistered. He lifted his head and dragged his eyes, still hidden behind his sunglass- 

Wait, no they weren’t. Where the bloody hell were they? 

Scrapping his hazy gaze away from the approximate area that Aziraphale was occupying, he searched for his sunglasses. 

What he found was that sometime between shivers they had made it to the bookshop. He hadn’t even registered the miracle Aziraphale had done. He was standing in front of the couch that he had always claimed in those early days, sprawling across to assert… well he had never actually been sure of what he had been trying to assert. He had just wanted his angel. Anything else had been a secondary concern. 

But as he found that couch, his legs decided to follow gravity’s pull and he listed sideways. Something warm was on either side of his arms, and the weight of it was burning lava and a blissful balm. 

In a terrifying moment he imagined that the weight was something Holy and that was why he was burning as he slowly froze to death. 

And while Aziraphale was indeed Holy he would rather discorporate himself than willingly hurt Crowley. He followed Crowley down to the couch cushions, though he managed it with much more grace than Crowley had. 

His poor dear was still shivering up a storm. With a quick snap Aziraphale had put the kettle on to boil and had a ridiculously thick blanket, patchwork black-and-red tartan, nestled around Crowley’s shoulders and was pulling his snakey demon into his arms. 

“My dear, really, must you be so dramatic?” He got no response but he hummed as if he had. “Really, you wiley old thing, it’s barley dipped below fifty degrees!” 

That at least got him a grunt from somewhere deep within the blanket. Crowley had burrowed, head completely covered, whole body smooshed against Aziraphale’s own warm body. 

“Alright, my dear, no more cold weather for you. You’re now being kept in the bookshop, right here, until further notice.” 

Crowley relaxed further into his Angel’s warmth, and Aziraphale smiled. He leant against the backrest, miracling the tea ready into a mug and the mug into his hand, and settled in to be a heater for as long as his dear snake needed him.


	3. Stay and chat a while Pt.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4: collapsed building/buried alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, lovely people! So this was is a bit longer than the other chaps AND it's a two-parter! I appreciate any constructive criticism and feedback, I'd love to hear from y'all!  
> ((I apologize for any OOC-ness, I'm still working on developing how to write Zira and Crowley. Doing my best!!))
> 
> <3 Willow

It was easy to forget, being immortal beings, that they could be discorporated just as easily as a human being could be killed. They would come back, sure, but the paperwork was hell (literally) and the reprimands were often worse, if not simply downright embarrassing to endure.

Aziraphale and Crowley had both racked up a number of discorporations over the six millennia. Some had simply been embarrassing, like when Aziraphale had eaten and oyster than had gone rather rancid, or when Crowley had fallen off a horse sometime in the sixteenth century (that day had also marked the last time Crowley had ridden a horse at all). 

But as with human deaths, some were downright awful. 

This was looking more and more like it was going to go into that category. 

Dust rained down as the crumbled bakery foundations shifted on top of Aziraphale. The only reason he recognized it was because the baker and his daughter, Samuel and Raine, were trapped next to him. 

Splintered floorboards stuck into their backs, glass decorated their skin all over, and concrete chunks of Rainey’s Bakery kept all three sandwiched down. 

Aziraphale was trying very hard to ignore the enormous concrete slab that had fallen onto his chest. His back was against the ground, right arm stuck fast and awkwardly underneath him. Raine’s soft cries and the sound of ragged, rattling breaths were the only sounds to break the cage of rock and darkness. Not a single crack of light filtered in and Aziraphale could not determine how hurt the other two were, which one was making that awful rattling noise. Punctured lung, most likely. 

He had often worked as a medic, in all those wars so long ago, forgoing his nature as a warrior to help in a way he felt better suited what an angel should stand for. 

Now the feeling of helplessness had replaced physical feeling in his legs and back. He knew, somewhere amongst all those books back home at the bookshop, that there were quite of few expert novels that would inform him of how bad a sign that was. But he had Raine and Samuel to worry about, no headspace left for him to think of himself as he felt his miracle that held up the debris shudder. 

The panting was getting faster and wetter, shallower and more panicked. Aziraphale opened his mouth to reassure Raine, the sweet child, only nine years old, that help was on the way. The ambulances would come soon, bringing the EMTs and the firefighters and medical supplies, and before they knew it this whole nonsense would be over and done. 

All that came up was a spurt of blood and saliva, and the rattling turned to deep coughs. 

Oh. So he was making that noise. 

The debris shifted again, the slab making up their roof lowering a few inches. Raine sobbed and Aziraphale could hear Samuel’s urgent murmuring, soft and reassuring. 

C’mon Crowley, where was he? Where was that blasted demon when he needed him? 

His thoughts were matching his breath, panicked and rapid-fire. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep up this miracle. He was slipping, and very soon they’d all three be dead. 

And with that thought doubling his resolve his concentration could only center on keeping them alive, all other sense fading, pain fading, thoughts fading until all that remained was a litany, over and over and over. 

KeepthemsafekeepthemsafekeepthemsafeCrowleypleasehurryhurryhurry. 

Something was happening. He knew it must be something quite important because there was shouting and sirens and hands, hands were all over him and he did not like that, not one bit angels didn’t touch, unless it was Crowley oh God where was Crowley had something happened what had happened where was he was this Hell— 

“Sir, sir please you need to calm down,” a woman’s voice filtered down into his mind like dust. Dust, oh Lord they had been trapped where were Samuel and Raine what had happened to them had he failed them? Had they died there? 

“Sir, the other two trapped with you are fine, they’re both alive,” the woman’s voice came again, and this time Aziraphale tracked with it. He tried to take a deep breath to calm himself down and agony seared through his chest, bright white-hot agony. 

He screamed and could barely feel the soothing hand on his face. 

“Someone get an oxygen mask for me right now!” 

The agony baselined, steady and torturous. 

The soft hands were back, nothing like his Crowley’s but kind, gentle. 

“Sir, I need you to breathe, but keep it shallow. Your ribs were crushed by the concrete and if you breathe any deeper you might worsen the punctures.” 

Aziraphale did his best to comply, and as he tried to keep his breaths shallow he realized he was shaking something terrible, and he was very, very cold. 

“My name is Shailey, ok? Can you tell me your name, sir?” One of her hands was settled against the left side of his face, the other had two fingers pressed against his pulse point. He still couldn’t focus his eyes on her, her silhouette blurring and pulsing against the sun. 

He licked his lips, copper meeting his tongue and he tried his hardest to speak around a gag. 

“Ez..Ezrra. Ez’a Fell.” 

The hand on his face patted him gently, and the relief in Shailey’s voice was palpable. 

“Good, Mr. Fell, that’s good. We’re gonna get you out of here as soon as we can, ok? Is there anyone we can call for you, Mr. Fell?” 

Her hand dropped down to tap lightly at his wedding ring as his shaky breaths and dizzy spell sent shivers down his spine. 

“Partner?” 

Just thinking of Crowley nearly had Aziraphale in tears again. He shook all the more as he pulled Crowley’s number out of his soupy memory. 

“My hs’bnd, Crowley F-Fell. 404-0666.” 

“Ok, Ezra, just hang on for me ok? I’m going to call him right now, and once I explain the situation to him I’ll let you talk to him, ok?” 

He must have nodded because the hand on his face left, the other still pressed against his pulse point on his neck. The pain was back, no longer mercifully at bay by adrenaline, and it was pulling him under, wave after wave dragging him under the surf further out into the abyss. 

“Angel.” 

That was Crowley’s voice, what was he doing there? Relief flooded him and for a moment he couldn’t say a word. 

“Angel,” Crowley’s voice was strained but he was keeping it soft and gentle. “Aziraphale I am almost there, ok? Once I’m there everything will be just fine, alright, Angel?” Aziraphale could practically hear the leather of the Bentley’s steering wheel protesting Crowley’s iron grip. 

“Tick…tickety b-b-boo, dear.” 

Crowley’s tearful bark of laughter pulled a thin smile over Aziraphale’s face. 

“That’s my angel. Just ssstay with me, alright? Don’t you leave me, Angel.” 

“Mr.Crowley, this is Shailey. Keep talking to him, and when you arrive I’ll direct you over.” 

For moments and years and seconds all Aziraphale knew was painpainpain and Crowley’s soft and urgent voice, tinny through the telephone, and Shailey’s steadfast hand against his throat. 

And then all of a sudden he knew nothing at all.


	4. Stay and chat a while Pt.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 7 (update one of three!!!) Alternate Prompt #3-Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I'm a tad behind, but today (after I've gone to bed and wake up in roughly seven hours to continue the day) I will post two more updates! I really appreciate everyone who's read this, thank you so much y'all! Kudos and comments not expected but definitely appreciated.
> 
> <3 Willow

Cold. Numb. Cold. Numb. Cold.

There was definitely something wrong, but he couldn’t feel it, couldn’t see it, couldn’t put his mind on what that might be, so there was no harm in drifting a while longer, was there? If it was important then surely he would have felt something. 

His drifting was painless, though why that was an important thing to note he didn’t remember (but was grateful for all the more) and thoughts came and went unheeded. Crowley was at the center of most of them, baked goods at the center of the rest. When he found his way out of the drifting he would have to get Crowley those darling little chocolate sponge cakes he pretended not to like but Aziraphale knew he loved. That must be what his mind was whirling around. Why? Well, minds were funny things, and he had learned to roll with his many millennia ago, 

Yes, he must remember that. 

The drifting lasted quite a bit longer than he felt right, and it really was getting quite tedious. All that not feeling and foggy memory. Really not at all ideal; add in Crowley’s general absence and it was downright sinful. 

Being an angel he really couldn’t stand for such sin, now could he? 

Gently at first, testing the limits of the fog and his own strength, he pushed. Nothing. No movement. A bit harder and he got the smallest of gives from the fog, and kept pushing. 

Little by little the numbness faded and the cold got worse. 

Perhaps this hadn’t been his best idea. 

But the thoughts of Crowley and baked goods still filled his mind, and he pushed ahead if only to ease them, as they had quickly turned to worries and were making his stomach churn something awful. Something must have happened. His physical senses were still muddled, but when they came through as he kept pushing, they became sharper and hitting deeper into his mind. 

Antiseptic. 

Whirring. 

Something warm stroking repetitively over his hand. 

Quiet crying. 

That last one was the final straw. It sounded suspiciously like Crowley. 

His mind made up on the matter, he mustered up every ounce of the imagination his Crowley held so dear and made himself WAKE UP. 

He noted for next time to never do that again. 

Wave after wave of pain seized him, the briefest of respites in between them, and his sense still weren’t all there, too many focused on his painpainpain and this was not at all what he wanted. His body cried paintoomuchpainpleasestoppleaseohpleasestop while his mind cried in tandem CrowleyCrowleyCrowleymydearpleasehelpCrowleyCrowleyCrowleywhereareyouwhereareyouIneedyouhelpmehelpmehelpme 

The warmth on his hand tightened into a vice. 

The mud in his ears began to thin out, and in the same waves as his pain he heard the one he had called for. 

“Angel, Aziraphale I’m right here. Angel come back to me, I’ve got you, you’re alright” over and over and over, as if he couldn’t tell that Aziraphale was trying, as if he were praying to a God they both knew he desperately still wanted to trust but fell just a bit short of believing. So it wasn’t a prayer, but his own calling. 

With every last shred of effort, he focused every sense on Crowley. 

Warm hand. Cracking voice. Leather and whiskey scent. Stuttering, unnecessary inhales. Salt on his tongue from the tear-water in the air. 

His eyes cracked open to be met directly by Crowley’s. 

He was hovering over him faster than Aziraphale could take his next breath in. 

“Aziraphale, you wonderful bastard, wake up. C’mon Angel, you’re so close, please Angel, bastard ,wake up’ 

Aziraphale tried the tiniest of deep breaths. 

“My dear…” 

Crowley’s eyes, unblinking, filled out entirely by striking yellow, welled with tears, some escaping as he shakily brought Aziraphale’s hand up to his chapped lips and held a kiss to it, reverent and afraid and desperate and relieved and so full of love. 

When Aziraphale felt himself drifting again he felt no fear. He knew this time it was not a dangerous sleep he was slipping towards. 

And though Crowley knew this too, he stayed by his side all night, never blinking, never letting Aziraphale’s hand go, tears flowing until the early hours of the morning. 

It took another four days, which Aziraphale later found out made his total hospital stay stand at thirteen days, for the Crowley to have enough strength to miracle them out and shift the doctor’s memories to let them go without a fight. 

Left drained by keeping Raine and Samuel from getting crushed meant Aziraphale had to heal the human way, at least for a few more days. 

That alone was terrible, but worse was Crowley. 

He could barely say a word without stuttering or hissing and didn’t leave his side for a second. Aziraphale could feel his guilt wafting off of him, but Aziraphale was just a little too selfish and relished closeness his demon’s fear brought them. 

It had been three days since his release from the hospital and he was currently nestled between Crowley and the back of the couch, tartan blankets pulled over them. Warm and safe and healthy. 

Crowley had regained enough energy early that morning to heal Aziraphale fully, but they had wordlessly stayed close together all day, a rotating set of various records being miracled onto the record player and the heater turning on when he had felt Crowley begin to shiver. 

Maybe the next day Aziraphale would make Crowley tell him what had happened, how he had drained himself of his energy, ask him to check in on Raine and Samuel. 

But Crowley was right, he was a bastard, so he stayed right where he was. 

Warm. Safe. Together.


	5. The inevitable repercussions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day six prompt: no more, "stop please"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update two of three! Kudos/comments/constructive criticism much appreciated!
> 
> Thanks everyone!!!  
> <3 Willow

It was every night. Every single night since the Apoca-nope, one of them would wake the other with their cries.

Both of them had grown used to it, but it didn’t make it any easier to bear. 

Tonight, it seemed it was Aziraphale’s turn to suffer. He had begun to take on Crowley’s habit of sleeping after the body swap. They had both been so exhausted that night that after they switched back they had simply fallen to Aziraphale’s newly restored couch and stayed in each other’s arm, only realizing the next morning that both of them had slept the whole night through. After that night Aziraphale would try valiantly to simply lay next to Crowley and read a book, keep his tired eyes open because angels didn’t need sleep, but to no avail. The nightmares had stared that next night. 

Crowley has become a light sleeper simply to make sure that Aziraphale’s snuffling and little sleep noises were innocent and not from his hellish—and he would know—nightmares. 

He was so glad he had, because tonight looked like a whopper. 

Aziraphale had rolled onto his stomach, facing away from Crowley, tartan flannel pajamas that he still insisted were stylish twisted and pulled halfway up his back. He lay perfectly still, but every muscle was pulled taught and Crowley knew tomorrow his angel would be shuffling around the bookshop to re-shelve books, aching. 

A constant stream of frantic words fell from his lips, ones Crowley really didn’t want to hear but did listened to anyway as he slunk up right behind Aziraphale, the barest hint of space between them. 

He felt lightyears away when he heard what Aziraphale was saying. 

“Please stop, oh Lord, please no more. This cannot truly be Your will please, Lord, no, stop stop stop.” 

“Angel,” Crowley kept his voice low but earnest. Aziraphale wasn’t an easy wake-up from these things. “Aziraphale, you’re having a nightmare, wake up.” 

He hesitated for a moment, knowing it could go either way, very good of very bad, and placed his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder the lightest he possibly could. 

It didn’t help how gentle he was, Aziraphale rocketed out of bed like a…well, like a rocket, and was on the other side of their bedroom in the blink of an eye. In the ethereal plane, when Crowley took a peek at out his periphery, his wings were spread wide and ruffled, primaries sticking out in alarm. 

His blue eyes bore into Crowley’s yellow, but they were too bright, too wide, and Crowley knew that the images of the nightmare were still playing in front of him instead of reality. 

His poor angel. 

He opened his mouth to offer some platitude to get Aziraphale to calm down when Aziraphale beat him to it, words tumbling out frantic and almost too quiet to hear. 

“Stop, please stop. Don’t hurt him,” his voice broke on the last word, and his throat bobbed painfully as he swallowed and kept going. “Please, take me, you can have me, don’t hurt Crowley, please. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll Fall if that’s what you want, just please, stop hurting him.” 

Crowley heart dropped out through his feet and his fingers grew cold at those words. ‘I’ll Fall if that’s what you want.’ 

And he wished he didn’t believe them to be true. If it were up to Aziraphale, and he had to choose between his own angelic nature and Crowley’s life, Crowley knew that he would choose Crowley’s life every single time, and it made Crowley’s head ache and heart burst. 

Of course, if the roles were reversed both he and Aziraphale knew that’d he’d take any torture Hell could throw at him if it meant Aziraphale would be saved from harm. 

They were even, but that didn’t mean either of them had to like it. Crowley supposed having to watch each other suffer nightmares was God’s idea of payback for their ridiculous self-sacrificing nature they had for each other. 

Aziraphale was still as unmoving as a statue, every bit the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, stood at attention with shoulders stiff as boards. 

Crowley knew he’d just have to wait this one out. 

“Angel, I’m going to go back to bed, alright,” his voice still quiet in the night air of the bookshop as he backed up to their bed, getting under the covers, never breaking eye-contact with Aziraphale. 

“I’ll be right here when you’re ready.” 

And with that he leaned against the headboard. He miracled on his sunglasses so Aziraphale couldn’t see that he was watching him, relaxing his body in feigned sleep. 

Twenty minutes later Aziraphale litany broke and he finally started to show signs of coming out of it. His nervous hands began to twitch, his eyes wrinkling in a way that Crowley would call adorable in any other circumstance. Now his heart just broke a little more for him. 

“Crowley?” Oh, his voice, so tentative, unsure and scared. Knowing and resigned and just wanting a peaceful night, for Someone’s sake. 

“Right here, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, patting their cream tartan bedspread. 

Aziraphale was back in the black silk sheets almost as fast as he had flown out of them, and Crowley had himself an armful of sobbing angel. 

He held his angel, his best friend, until he had cried himself hoarse and the sun had rose, and then Crowley kept him close even after. For as long as Aziraphale needed him, Crowley would be there. Every single time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more update coming later today!  
> -W


	6. Let me help you, my dear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day seven prompt: Support/carry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a little late, technically very early November 8th where I am, but I'm still counting it as being part of my November 7th three-part update. This one is a but short, but I wanted to get something up. Thank you all very much for reading!
> 
> Special shout out to my sister, Lia, who I only let read this because I got 150 hits, but was very kind! Love you dude!!!
> 
> <3 Willow

Oh, that church. It would replay in his mind for years to come, Crowley—Anthony J. Crowley, now—swooping in to save him.

And now, as they stood in the ruins of the bombed church, both unharmed, Aziraphale’s bag of books safely in Aziraphale’s arms once again, he remembered two things. 

One, that he was very much in love with this demon, and there was no way to ignore that anymore. 

And two, that Crowley had willingly walked (hopped) on consecrated ground for him. 

After so many years with Crowley, Aziraphale had learned a thing or two about taking care of a hurt demon. He also knew that Crowley would ignore it as long as he could, and if possible, would completely ignore it while still in Aziraphale’s presence. 

So when Crowley sauntered past him to give him his books, Aziraphale was surprised to see a limp interrupt his saunter back to his car. 

“Crowley, dear, are you quite alright?” Aziraphale knew his voice was pitched with worry and he couldn’t stop it. If demon’s were able to sense love he knew Crowley would be knocked out of his socks with the waves radiating off of Aziraphale. 

Crowley startled and spluttered as he turned half-way back to Aziraphale. 

“Huh? Yes angel, quite good.” He shifted his weight and Aziraphale saw rather than heard his small wince. “Well, not good, good is bad. Well good is good. Not good for me. Bad is good. Not for you, I suppose but--” 

Aziraphale gave him a Look, and, shifting the books to his right hand, walked right over to Crowley and threaded his left arm around his waist before he could lose his nerve. 

Crowley’s eyes, still tucked behind his sunglasses, went wide and he stopped breathing. 

“Relax, my dear, I’m not stupid, I know what you did for me,” he murmured quietly. “Just let me help you to your confoundedly fast motor vehicle, my dear.” 

They made their way, Crowley stiff, both a bit awkward, over the rubble to Crowley’s safe haven. 

Crowley had only held his weight off of Aziraphale’s supporting arm for a split second, and then, with a sigh of something caught between resignation and hope, let Aziraphale share his weight. A small mercy accepted. A big step for them. 

This was the moment that convinced Aziraphale, two mere decades later, to give his love, his Crowley, the Holy Water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, for my fellow American readers, yahoo for Biden winning, am I right?!?!
> 
> <3 W.


	7. What's real anymore anyways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day eight prompt: isolation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright wonderful readers! Consider this chapter as a little teaser, because this is by far one of my favorite hurt/comfort tropes that is available, and I have PLANS for our wonderful ineffable duo that are much too long to put into Whumptober-November. So, hope you like this, leave kudos, comments, and such-like as you feel compelled (I looove them all) and have a good read!
> 
> <3 Willow

Nothingness: the quality or state of being nothing; such as  


a- non-existence  


b- utter insignificance  


c- death

Aziraphale knew he was pressed up against something. He felt it, or at least he thought that was what a thing felt like. He couldn’t be sure, you know, after being in Heaven so long. He had let the Light in so long ago, and it had dimmed his senses and memories. 

So he couldn’t be sure what it was. Probably as it always was. Just more nothingness. More and more nothingness had come flooding in once he had accepted the Light. His constant companion. Phantom sensations and sounds that held him close and then dropped him straight back into floating through the bright white everything. 

For that’s what the nothingness had become. In a world where all else held no meaning or significance anymore, he knew that the Light was his Everything. 

Nothingness: the quality or state of being nothing; such as a- non-existence b- utter insignificance c- death 

Aziraphale knew he was pressed up against something. He felt it, or at least he thought that was what a thing felt like. He couldn’t be sure, you know, after being in Heaven so long. He had let the Light in so long ago, and it had dimmed his senses and memories. 

So he couldn’t be sure what it was. Probably as it always was. Nothing. More and more nothing had come flooding in once he had accepted the Light. Phantom sensations and sounds that held him close and then dropped him straight back into floating through the bright white everything. 

For that’s what the nothingness had become. In a world where all else held no meaning or significance anymore, he knew that the Light was his Everything. 

Surround: to enclose on all sides: envelop; to enclose so as to cut off communication or retreat. 

So he knew for sure then, that if the feeling of warmth against his back, of the steady breathing that he knew, he just knew if it were real that it would have belonged to his Crowley, if none of that was real then Crowley’s voice couldn’t be real either. 

He shouldn’t feel guilty for the quiet sobs and the wretched sniffs because none of it was real. Just another trick. 

All that was Everything was Nothingness, all that was Everything was Light, all the was Nothingness was Everything. 

He let himself lose Crowley’s voice and float away. Afterall, he knew the truth. 

All that was Everything was Nothingness, all that was Everything was Light, all the was Nothingness was Everything. 

He would die here, and if he were honest, he’d say that that was ok, because maybe if he stopped existing he would stop all this feeling nothingness nonsense. 

All that was Everything was Nothingness, all that was Everything was Light, all the was Nothingness was Everything. 

He sunk back down to the imagined sound of Crowley’s soft hissing cries and let the nothingness take him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My next chapter will be longer, I know this one and the previous were quite short. Thank you to all'y'all who've taken the time to read this!
> 
> <3W


	8. There could be worse things (Pt.1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 10 prompt: bleeding/blood loss/internal bleeding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! First off, thank you everyone who's been reading!!! Lots of love, guys, truly. Secondly, this is upload one of two of two related stories. I wanted to get something up before I have to dash off to work, and part two will be uploaded sometime tonight.
> 
> Also, I tried out Crowley's POV in this one. I'm still getting used to writing like him. Honestly I can be very similar to Aziraphale, so he's easier for me to write. So if Crowley's too OOC, just shoot me a message or a (kind) comment and I'll work on making him less OOC.
> 
> Edited 11/16/20  
> 
> 
> Once again, thank you for reading, enjoy!
> 
> <3 Willow

Heaven and Hell had always like wars. It was expected of Hell and of demons. Was practically written into their nature. But Heaven and the angels were just as bad (good?) when it came to war-lust.

Some had pointed out, within the walls of Heaven or within the walls of a certain bookshop, the ironic notion that angels were going against two of Her commandments, murder and lust. And with those came pride, and oftentimes adultery. For even human soldiers given duties by God got lonely, and for every lonely person there is a vice. It really just all added up to a great big mess, the Divine allowing the Divine to do nasty Occult things all because it-- oh how had Aziraphale had explained it? 

Ah, yes. It leant weight to their moral argument. 

Honestly, he hadn’t heard such bollocks logic in a long time. It had amused him at first. That, of course, had been before he had been captured by the English and stuck in a room that looked suspiciously like it had once been a medical operating room. He knew when they bad captured him that they had to be on some sort of Holy Mission. 

It had been three days and no one had come back for him. Blessed chains held him down fast, all his power drained. His body was growing weak, and his mind wasn’t far behind. 

Oh, and to add a cherry on top, the bloody English soldier that had strapped him down to the molding operating table had decided that capturing a demon and holding him in Holy chains wasn’t enough. He just had to slip Crowley a little Blessed blade, straight through his left shoulder, right above his collar bone. 

His mind may have been foggy, but he had enough of his wits about him to know that this whole situation was no good. 

Or really, it was too Good, and not Bad enough for himself, demon, to possibly think of an escape. 

The despair that was settling in might have also been the overwhelming sense of lightheadedness. But he couldn’t be sure. Human corporations were fickle things, this was probably in the category of ‘not bad enough to need to pay attention to.’ 

His mind wandered back to Aziraphale, his one comfort. He was probably miles away. Crowley knew that he had been serving as a medic for most of the war, but they’d only seen each other one time, in that church when he’d had to save Aziraphale and his blasted books. 

Crowley did his best, at first, holed up there with no hope of escape, to keep his mind off of Aziraphale and that night, what it meant. But then he had lost the feeling in his left arm and decided that it wouldn’t hurt, thinking about his best friend as he slowly bled to death. There would be worse things waiting for him in Hell than embarrassment from thinking of an angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh and yes I did skip day nine's prompt. I'm either going to include it in part two or sub it with an alternative prompt.  
> <3 W


	9. A demon, an angel, and Warlock walk into a bookshop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate prompt #7: Found family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty everyone. Definitely did not post the promised second update yesterday. I just really was not feeling the writing muse last night. I am quite fond of this chapter, though. I really like the idea that Crowley and Aziraphale would keep taking care of Warlock post Armagednot. Thank you every one of you who've been reading this! I appreciate you all. Kudos and comments most welcome!
> 
> <3 Willow

Warlock Dowling would not have been considered a normal child on either side of the Atlantic. He was the spoiled, bratty child of the American Ambassador. Every thing he could ever desire was given to him. Harriet Dowling would give him anything to make him shut up. The kids at school mistook that as having everything he needed.

Not that Harriet ever gave him any of those ‘gifts’ herself. She had a house maid or one of the security guard order it, too busy and bothered to do it herself. 

Thaddeus Dowling was worse. He paid too much attention. The tiniest detail he considered wrong he immediately ordered corrected. It didn’t matter that he was only home for a twenty-four-hour consecutive period about twice a month. Warlock couldn’t stand those days. It was like those nightmares where you showed up to school only to release you’re naked and everyone is staring at you, seeing everything. 

Today had been worse day in a long time. 

Thaddeus usually just yelled. Degraded. Ripped Warlock to shreds and then left. He didn’t usually go in for the hitting. It really was a spectacular bruise, there was no questioning it. It bloomed from the bridge of his nose, which still ached and sat crookedly, and spread like an ink blotch towards his eyes. His father’s wedding ring had caught him, too, and his left eyebrow was split. 

Warlock sucked in a deep shuddering breath and wiped his eyes with his jumper sleeve. It was bad enough that the American Ambassador’s kid was taking off across London with a beaten face. He couldn’t add crying to it. Well, really, it didn’t matter either way. He had run away before. There hadn’t even been anything on the news. Nothing. 

He had been gone for three days. He had been seven. 

It had been during a period of time where Nanny and Brother Francis had been on vacation for a while, and the house staff and Warlock were under pain of death if they leaked a word of it to either of Warlock’s caretakers. Warlock knew that Nanny would have killed his father if she had known. Come to think of it, Brother Francis probably would have too, or just given Thaddeus that absolute worst telling off in his entire life. 

Warlock hadn’t seen Nanny in a long time; he hoped she still cared enough to maybe let him sleep on her floor, just until the bruising went away. He’d do any chore she wanted him to do, if she’d just give him a few days away from his father. 

His anxious thoughts took him all the way to Soho, London, where he slunk off the bus and towards the address he had put into Google Maps. The actual address was on a crinkled, dirty old piece of paper. Brother Francis had given it to him when he and Nanny had left, making him promise that if he were ever in trouble to go to that bookshop. 

Warlock couldn’t imagine Nanny living in a bookshop, or really even being around one. But he supposed if Brother Francis was there, Nanny would be also. 

Now that he was there, though, standing right outside the front windows, he was overwhelmed by how stupid this was. He hadn’t seen Nanny or Brother Francis in years. No text messages, no emails, not even regular old mail. And now he thought he could just show up out of the blue and ask them for help, looking like he had fallen face first down a flight of stairs. 

No, he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t. No way. 

Even as he thought this he felt his feet begin to move, and then he was on the doorstep, hand on the big brass handle. Shaking all over he tried it. The sign on the door said Closed but handle twisted and the door swung right open. Just the smell of it almost made him cry. This is where Brother Francis had gotten that smell. It had always been on Nanny, too, and Warlock was sucker-punched by a longing for his two odd caregivers. 

“Excuse me,” a prim voice said from the back of the shop. “We are most certainly closed—oh my dear Lord.” 

Warlock stared at the shop owner. Stuffy and dressed very odd and fancy. But something about him… Maybe it was how he held his hands intwined over his pudgy stomach, or how he had an air of being just slightly smarter than everyone else in the room, just like how Warlock remembered Brother Francis. The two of them stared at each other for an uncomfortably long time as Warlock waited for the man to say something. Kick him out, scold him, anything. He honestly wouldn’t mind if the man ignored him if he’d just stop staring at him like that, blue eyes boring into Warlock like they could see into his soul. 

“Ok, um sorry, this must be the wrong bookshop,” Warlock stammered. “I, uh, I’m just gonna go, ok? S-sorry to bother you, uh, sir.” 

This seemed to snap the man out of his stupor, and he advanced on Warlock as Warlock began to back towards the door, trying to make a hasty retreat. 

“Oh, my dear, what happened to your…” but he cut himself off as Warlock stiffened and turned his gaze down, now backed up against the door, left arm bent behind him to grip the handle. “Right, ah—Crowley,” the shopkeeper yelled into the back, eyes still trained on Warlock. “Darling, you’d better come in here. Someone to see you.” 

Warlock wrinkled his brow. Crowley? He didn’t know anyone named Crowley. But as he heard a groan from the back of the shop and heard what sounded like someone rolling off a couch onto the floor, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had heard that name before, a long time ago. 

The odd shopkeeper was still turned towards Warlock, but now his eyes were trained on the entrance to the back of the shop, and he had a worried expression, a pinch to his face as if he wasn’t sure how those next couple moments were going to go, which made Warlock snap his gaze on the entrance, too, waiting for Crowley. 

The next thirty seconds were spent in rising anxiety for Warlock and rising tension for Aziraphale. 

“Angel, who could possibly be this important to be barging in on a Saturday night who you allow in when the shop is clearly closed?” That voice. Oh that voice was like a faraway memory, and suddenly Warlock couldn’t’ breathe, waiting for whoever that voice belonged to to jump out and say ‘haha gotcha! Fooled you good’ 

And then a skinny man with long red hair and a glass of red wine in his hand slunk out of the entrance, and it was like someone had plonked a mint into a bottle of Coca Cola. 

The glass dropped and shattered, the man who Warlock knew to the very bottom depths of his heart to be Nanny let out a wretched strangled sound, and Warlock ran over and jumped at him, nearly knocking him over and promptly bursting into tears. 

He couldn’t stop sobbing, clutching the back of Nanny’s designer shirt that he was no doubt ruining with his snot. Nanny had one had cradling his head and the other pressed against his back, holding him just as close. 

He blabbed about everything, told them both everything he’d sworn to himself he’d never tell anyone ever. His father, his mother, the kids at school, his terrible thirteenth birthday, how he had no friends and how he had missed them both so so much that it was a constant physical ache. 

He had no idea how long it took for him to cry himself dry, but eventually he slumped against Nanny and heaved a deep shuddering sigh. 

Nanny made noises like she—he?—was going to say something, but all that came out was, “Ngk.” 

Warlock was suddenly reminded that Brother Francis, for he knew now that’s who the shopkeeper was, was still there as he felt a warm hand fall on his shoulder. Brother Francis’ eyes weren’t dry either, and when he saw Warlock glancing up at him, he smiled softly, and Warlock just about burst into tears again. 

“My dears, why don’t we take this into the back?” He took Nanny’s elbow and guided them both up, Warlock still gripped tight by Nanny, and walked into the back room. As they walked, all linked to each other in a warm huddle, Warlock felt a rush of peacefulness, unexplainable and a bit odd but completely blissful, and he knew that he was safe now. 

He had finally, finally found them, and he was determined to never lose them again.


	10. Carry on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #11: Crying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all for reading! Kudos and comments appreciated and treasured  
> <3 Willow

There had been many close calls throughout Crowley’s existence. The Flood, the fourteenth century, his fight with Aziraphale in the nineteenth century, and a few odds and ends in between. But he never let it get any further than that. Close calls were fine, because they could be stopped.

Though he had not meant to Fall, he had become accustomed to the habits and beliefs of the Fallen, and so he did things that were typical of other Fallen but were against his own personal nature. He did not needlessly harm. He did not directly murder. He was endeared by children a great deal more than he probably should have been. But he did lie, and he did wreak havoc, and he had caused harm and sorrow on the humans. 

But he held fast to this. He had been close to it quite recently, in the bar with that blasted burnt book, but that could be excused by his heightened nerves and thinking his best friend was dead and not having let his corporation rest in what had ended up being days. 

This, however, was absolutely unacceptable. He was not sad. He was not angry. They were safe, Someone bless it, why were his eyes watering? He was fine. 

They were fine. Everything was just dandy, tickety-boo even. 

Aziraphale had yet to see. Crowley repositioned his sunglasses anyways. Aziraphale was currently enraptured by a young child selling lemonade in St. James Park, his back turned to Crowley. The child was sweet and young and had no idea how close it had come to witnessing the End Times and having their life obliterated. 

Aziraphale was happy and the patrons of the small child’s stand were happy and they were all safe. He knew this. He knew that he knew this. So why the tears? 

They were still just prickling his eyes, not yet falling, and he sternly glared at the bridge of his nose, commanding them that in no uncertain circumstances were they to fall and worry his angel of his..euch. His feeeelings. 

He was a demon, afterall. They may be on their own side now, the two of them together, but it didn’t change that he was Fallen. He would not cry. He could not allow that. 

“My dear, here’s your lemonade,” Aziraphale was pushing a cup into his hand and Crowley’s attention snapped back. “Come along, Crowley. Let’s head back to the bookshop. I’m getting a bit peckish, but let’s just order in tonight.” 

Aziraphale was staring at him, unendingly kind and soft, and he didn’t comment on the tear that rolled down Crowley’s cheek. His own cheeks were dimpled by a soft, sad smile, and he reached up to Crowley’s face and thumbed the tear away. He kept it there a moment too long and then laced Crowley’s arm through his own, leading them along the sidewalks back to the bookshop. 

They would no doubt be having a conversation about this later. Whether later would be that night or three weeks from now neither much cared. But Crowley did know that Aziraphale understood. That the Apocanot had left them with a fair bit a baggage each, and that it would take far more than a lemonade from a smiling child to be able to heal from it. That neither of them fully understood their own reactions to the baggage, but that they’d help each other through. 

So they simply walked, arm in arm, back towards the bookshop as Crowley’s tears spilt down his face. Aziraphale squeezed his arm from time to time, a reminder. 

They just kept on walking, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got Queen's Night at the Opera at my town's antique mall today and listened to it the whole time I wrote today's first update. I highly recommend if you haven't given it a listen, it's a masterpiece  
> <3W


	11. Not a matter of it, but when

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #12: Broken down  
> In the same vein as the last chapter but not specifically linked. You don't need to read last chap to get this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. Having a bit of a stressful patch of life right now with finals looming, so it's making finding time and energy to write a bit difficult. I'll try to get the chaps updated consistently, but it may be here-and-there for a bit. By the end of November I will have them all up though!! Hope you're all having a good day. I appreciate every single kudo and any comment I can get, so if the spirit moves you, don't be shy! Happy reading!
> 
> <3Willow

Aziraphale had known it would be coming. He had, of course, been steadfastly ignoring it. The burning behind his eyes, the way his feet felt as if they were dragging along behind him, the terrible, unceasing reminder in his brain that they had been so close to losing everything. Humanity would have been obliterated and he hadn’t done barely anything at all! The child Adam had saved them. The son of Satan had saved the world and he, Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, had just threatened his best friend and had nearly killed Adam.

But he was an angel. He could not give in. It was surely some sort of sin. Sloth, or pride, or something very Bad that he should not do. 

He knew, deep in his old heart, that it wasn’t really Bad. He had seen humans do it countless time, helping thousands of them along the way. But still, he couldn’t budge. He was frightfully stuck in his ways, sometimes. 

It had been three months since the switch. So far, neither demon nor angel had come after them. He should have been reassured by that, but he was no fool. He had been thinking of what Crowley had said, in the park after the switch, about there being a real End Times. How it would be angels and demons against humans. He was starting to agree with him, and that sat in his heart as heavy as one of his old tomes. 

To keep his mind busy, Aziraphale had decided that he needed to clean out the bookshop. Properly sort out an inventory. Dust the shelves in the way-back that hadn’t seen a feather duster almost since the first days of the shop. 

Crowley was always there, nowadays, and Aziraphale was very glad to have the company. Sometimes he would still jolt out of a reading stupor and forget that the world wasn’t about to end and that Crowley was safe. Today Crowley had taken on his snake form and was sitting on a windowsill, drowsily resting in the last of the summer’s rays. It wouldn’t be too long before the sun would move behind the London clouds and wouldn’t return for months, so Crowley had said he wanted to soak up every drop of it. 

Aziraphale found it quite endearing, and he had offered to buy Crowley a heat lamp. Crowley had stammered and blushed so badly that Aziraphale had to make him a cup of tea to calm him down. 

Aziraphale hadn’t mentioned it again, but he had gone and bought one any ways, and it was sitting in its box under his desk 

But at that precise moment, Aziraphale’s mind was far, far away from Crowley. 

The disadvantage of cleaning was that you found things you had only lost in the first place with the hopes that they’d remain lost. Before him sat his diary from the nineteenth century. 

Small enough to fit in his coat pocket and script nearly ineligible, it was covered in dust. Its spine was cracked and Aziraphale felt himself transported back in time as he ran his fingers along it. That time had been nearly as dark and dreadful as the week leading up to the Apocanot. He hadn’t had Crowley by his side, and he had been terribly lonely. 

Those two were things that Crowley now knew. But Aziraphale had never told him about Heaven’s increased check-ins during that century. They had begun before he and Crowley’s argument, in the 1820s, and ended right before the Great War. 

They had been harsh to him in the past, but they had turned cruel. 

Aziraphale had kept every notice that they had sent him, to remind himself that he fell short, that he was not yet enough, that he could be doing more. He had forgotten about those once Crowley had come back, sticking them right into his diary and shoving it onto this shelf he had been cleaning. 

He didn’t know how long he sat there, or why he opened the diary up, or why he began to flip through the notices, reading the lines that he had forgotten he had once memorized. 

He did know that it must have been long enough for the sun to set, but Crowley was right in front of him, sunspot abandoned, and he was staring at Aziraphale. He had knelt on the notices that Aziraphale had let drop to the floor. 

Bad angel, stupid angel, people could have died and would have all been because of your incompetence, you good-for-nothing— 

“Oh, Aziraphale, it’s alright,” Crowley’s voice sounded so sad, Aziraphale accepted the hug just to comfort him. “Angel, it’s alright. It’s over.” 

It’s over. 

The gate opened wide and Aziraphale shattered. 

Crowley wound his arms around him. Tucked Aziraphale’s head beneath his chin. He knew that it wasn’t just about the notices. It was about Heaven. It had never been kind to Aziraphale, but it had been the only family he had ever known, and to now be officially without them, even if it was better, was just so much to handle. 

So Crowley vowed right then and there, as he held his angel in his arms, that he would do everything in his power—imaginative or demonic-- to help Aziraphale move on. To heal and begin again. Anything for his angel.


	12. There could be worse things (Pt.2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #13: basically breathing issues which I interpreted as a lung infection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! So this one is a continuation of chapter 8, and I guess you don't really have to read that one to get this, but that one is a quick read so you may as well. This one came from a video of how to care for your pet snake when it has a lung infection that I found when I was procrastinating doing my work the other night. Let me know what you think!! I appreciate any feedback, comments or kudos!!!  
> <3Willow

Aziraphale felt it slowly, at first, a little niggle in the back of his head. Soft and ignorable. He was able to leave it be for about twelve hours, and then it spiked so badly that he’d actually fallen to his knees.

Crowley was in trouble. There was no misinterpreting what that feeling was. Crowley was in trouble, and he was in deep. 

Aziraphale was never one to be hasty about anything, except perhaps getting potential customers out of his shop, but when the spikes of agony and fear started to crash in on him in waves, he ran out of the medic tents faster than a soldier outrunning enemy fire. 

His own breath came in pants. He waited for the next wave to crash down, and with an almighty lung into the aura of despair he grabbed onto the source and dragged himself to it. 

His knees cracked against cement and his hands fell onto something cold. For a long moment the wave of pain didn’t stop. Aziraphale was dangerously close to despair himself, and then it ended quicker than it had begun. 

He opened the eyes that he hadn’t remembered closing and immediately wished he could close them again. 

The cold thing that his hands had fallen on was Crowley. Crowley, who was paler than Aziraphale had ever seen him, and who was still as death on the tilted operation table. 

Aziraphale’s anger churned as he touched the chains that had wound Crowley’s arms together behind his back and chained his ankles to the old medical table. As gingerly as he could, one hand on Crowley’s chest to support his weight, he ordered the Holy Chains off of Crowley’s ankles, and then off his arms. Crowley’s weight was almost entirely leaning against Aziraphale’s hand now, but Crowley still did not make a sound. 

Swiftly Aziraphale scooped Crowley up and moved him onto the floor. It was colder than the air itself, and it got Crowley to shiver. But whatever hope Aziraphale could have taken from that small movement was dashed when Crowley breathed in. 

It was sickly and wet, and rattled on the exhale. 

_Shit._ Aziraphale thought. He had seen this once before, long, long ago, before he and Crowley had become friends. 

Snakes got lung infections if they weren’t kept warm enough, and if not treated quickly they could turn deadly. Crowley was in fact a snake, and though he did not share all his characteristics with them, he did share this one. 

Aziraphale had foolishly thought that was all of it. Oh God, why couldn’t that have been all of it? 

As he made to scoop Crowley up again, his hand slipped on Crowley’s shoulder. 

The Blessed knife was too much. With a thought and a terribly resound snap of middle finger against thumb, the surrounding encampment went up in flames. 

They had been on a Holy Mission. They had failed. 

With only a moment’s hesitation, Aziraphale grabbed the hilt of the Holy Blade, his other hand pressed to the wound around it, and pulled. 

Crowley nearly choked himself on his own screaming breath. 

“Crowley, my dear boy, I am right here,” Aziraphale pressed his handkerchief against the onslaught of blood. “Crowley, can you hear me?” 

Three rattling breaths, and then the slightest of nods. 

“Good, good that’s good. Ok,” he took a deep breath. “This might pinch a bit, my dear. I’m taking us to the bookshop.” 

Two snaps this time. One for safe passage to the bookshop. The other for any underserving soldiers who had been in the encampment to escape the Holy flames. Afterall, Aziraphale knew a thing or two about following orders you didn’t agree with. 

They landed softly on Aziraphale’s bed, which he had imagined wouldn’t be dusty and so was as pristine as it was when it had been new. 

Aziraphale flew into action. With a Holy wound inflicted on a demon there was no time to waste. Add the lung infection and they were cutting it much too close. He dashed to the bathroom he only kept for appearances and grabbed his rather large medical kit from next to the bathtub. 

He hurried back, but he was still met with Crowley gasping on the bed, chest heaving and breaths gurgling. 

“Alright, my dear, upsidaisy, there we go,” Aziraphale propped Crowley against his chest, settled between his legs. “Crowley, if you can hear me, I need you to tap my hand once, if you please my dear.” 

Aziraphale had become quite the skilled medic. He had become known to be quite the healer of humans (no matter which side of the war they were on) because he was not allowed to use healing miracles during wars. The archangels forbade him, saying it went against the Almighty’s Will to save men from a war that She had allowed to happen in the first place. 

Aziraphale tried to obey them and make up for it at the same time by becoming a medic. It was never enough, but it helped him feel the tiniest bit better. He wasn’t going against the Great Plan and he could still save lives. 

So, this situation was only unique to him in the fact that it was Crowley, his truest and dearest—his only—friend, laying against his shoulder fighting for breath. 

Crowley’s shaky hand tapped Aziraphale’s leg once, and Aziraphale smiled sadly. He felt the tears looming behind his eyes, but he pushed them and his overwhelming feelings back. Crowley would not get better if he lost his composure. 

So without warning, Aziraphale poured the small bottle of brandy he kept in the kit over Crowley’s wound. 

Crowley never said a word, but he cried. Great big tears and breathless, heaving sobs that tore at Aziraphale’s heart. 

Clean the wound. Dry it. Stitch it up. Antiseptic cream. Bandage. 

Finally, eons and eons later, Aziraphale finished and miracled away the kit and used supplies. Crowley was breathing heavily against his chest, and Aziraphale snapped his fingers one last time to miracle them both into comfier clothes and to set the room’s fireplace ablaze. 

Black tartan flannel for Crowley, a cream cardigan, light blue undershirt, and soft breeches for himself. 

Crowley’s wound taken care of, the roomed warmed up to what Aziraphale’s research had told him would help eased the infection, he settled them both in for a long couple of days. 

Damn his accurate predictions.

He waited thirteen days and nights all said and done for Crowley to wake, even to stir but a little. On the fourteenth dawn Crowley’s breaths came without a hitch, and Aziraphale let himself breathe a sigh of relief and his tears finally fell. 

By teatime Crowley opened his bleary yellow eyes and gazed up at Aziraphale. He seemed confused, yet not surprised, to see Aziraphale cradling him in his arms. Aziraphale merely hummed at him softly and settled him more snuggly into his warm embrace. 

They both slept unhindered that night, safe in each other’s arms. 

Aziraphale saved Crowley for a change, and Crowley heard the unspoken words that layered Aziraphale’s embrace. They both slept unhindered that night, safe in each other’s arms. _I love you, dear boy._ One day, thousands more-- if he needed to wait he would-- Crowley would say it back. _I love you, Angel._


	13. Oh the walls we build

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alternat prompt #5: stoic whumpee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just whipped this one up before bed. Totally unedited, forgive any mistakes.  
> Kudos and comments greatly appreciated!!!
> 
> <3Willow

They came every-so-often once every century. He should be completely used to it by now. He always screwed up, he knew this; he was the worst of Heaven’s angels, and those notices were just Gabriel’s way of rubbing it in.

That’s why, after the fourteenth century and the twenty-third notice (and punishment) of his failings, Aziraphale made a vow to himself. 

He refused to give Gabriel satisfaction. Deep in his heart Aziraphale knew that what Gabriel was doing was outside of Her intentions, or at least Gabriel’s actions would not be justified by Her. But he kept this part of himself locked up tight and he had buried that key a long time ago. 

But it didn’t do to dwell on the what-ifs. The facts were that Aziraphale was liable to screw up in the eyes of the archangels, Gabriel or some paper-pusher stuck up in the offices would send him a notice, and then Gabriel and Sandolphon would come down to Earth and give Aziraphale his punishment. 

And they were getting worse. 

The stopping of miracles or making all his shoes fit just the wrong side of snug so that he was always uncomfortable or making his skin itch for weeks on end was one thing. 

Around the twentieth century, just after the Great War, the punishments became torturous. In 1928 Aziraphale had been branded with a sigil that mimicked what a Grace-less state of existence would be like for forty days. In 1933 they had made his hands blister and bleed with every good deed he did, so that he would be reminded how much his mistakes cost. And on and on, worse and worse. 

This one would have to take the cake, though. He hadn’t thought much of it when he had healed the young woman who had come into his shop with a brain tumor. She was only twenty, and she was a devout child of faith and held a great respect for his “don’t even think about buying my books” policy. He couldn’t have just let her die. 

So he had saved her. An hour later, much faster than usual, the notice came. Thirty minutes after that the bell on his door rang and he braced himself. 

Thirty-seven feathers now lay on the ground, glistening with his blood and staining his carpet. He still had his wings out, now bald in patches and shiny with blood; and though he was on his knees, fists clenched in his trousers, face ashen and lips trembling, he kept his gaze lazer-focused on Gabriel, not breaking his stare for even the briefest of blinks. He hadn’t made a sound, hadn’t said a word the whole time. 

Finally, Gabriel left him. Thinking he was finally alone, Aziraphale allowed himself to shudder and whimper, and without his knowing consent his body began to list forward. 

But before he could let his body join the pile of feathers, a rustling noise came from beneath the couch and then firm, slender hands were holding him upright. 

All he could do was let out a shaky breath. He hadn’t known that Crowley was still there. Must have turned into his snake form. He really wished Crowley hadn’t seen him go through that. He knew that he’d be getting an earful pretty soon, but as he opened his mouth to stop Crowley before he started, Crowley placed a gentle palm against Aziraphale’s check. 

Aziraphale did not break. He could not. He would not. 

But this, leaning into Crowley’s strength, letting himself be warmed by the palm against his cheek, this he could allow. 

Crowley stayed with him the whole night, and in the morning he cleaned up the feathers and tended to Aziraphale’s wings. Even later he ranted at Aziraphale about keeping that sort of thing from him, going on and on about it. But in that moment, kneeling in his beloved’s bloody feathers and cradling his angel to his chest, Crowley thought only of Aziraphale, and whispered sweet everythings into his curly white hair and waited for the dam to break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like whenever I have Crowley comfort Aziraphale it always ends like this, but I also feel it's accurate for immediate comfort so I'm letting it slide in my writing. I am going to try to spice it up a bit though, so we'll see where this path takes me.
> 
> <3W


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